


i swear; i say

by sunflashes



Series: i swear; i say [1]
Category: Bandom, Decaydance Records, Fall Out Boy, Fueled by Ramen
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflashes/pseuds/sunflashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first time Patrick aches, full of Pete's words. </p><p>It's not the last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this is the road to ruin and we're starting at the end

**{December 2012}**

He hasn’t changed. 

It’s a relief to Patrick that he hasn’t changed. Patrick has changed enough for both of them. 

“You look good,” is the first thing Pete says to him, and he can see in the set of Pete’s jaw, the new lines creasing through his young face, that he’s second guessing his words as they leave his mouth. 

It’s just shy of cruel that Patrick can still read Pete so easily. He smiles and claps Pete on the shoulder. 

“You too.” 

They sit down at the restaurant table. It’s just the two of them and Pete is underdressed, though he doesn’t seem to know it or care.

No agents. No significant others. No Joe, no Andy. 

The tablecloth is white, clinical. Patrick looks at his watch. 

\---

The first day was lunch, and Patrick had been right, it was awful; full of blistering silences and garbled, muted sentences. Praise and adulation bounced back and forth between the two, words ringing hollow simply because they each had not been there to witness their best friend’s triumphs. Pete reached for the check and Patrick’s fingers tightened into fists under the table. 

The next night is Pete over for drinks at Patrick’s, Elisa visiting her sister. Pete ducks his head as Patrick shows him inside; he has honest to god hardwood floors. Pete feels underdressed. 

They end up sprawled out in Patrick’s usually pristine living room, flushed-drunk and strumming instruments until they pass out. They laugh softly and curl up around the curved bodies of their guitars; Pete leaves early the next morning. It isn’t a stilted, embarrassed rush. He holds eye contact with Patrick, promises lyrics and a meal next time, pulls him into a tight, fierce hug that passes too quickly. 

\---

The next time, they literally hand each other scraps of paper under the dimmed lights in Angels and Kings Chicago, some of them dating back to high school. Patrick looks at the words _this is the story of how they met; her picture was on the back of a pack of cigarettes_ and says, “I miss Borders. Did you know they went out of business?” 

Pete fixes him with incredulous, hurt eyes, a lined face; it’s too much. 

“I think we’ve got an album here,” Patrick says, grandiose and hollow. 

Pete is silent for a moment and looks at Patrick tentatively, like there’s some hidden hope or halo to be found. Patrick doesn’t know if Pete finds what he's searching for in the taut line of his shoulders, the soft blinking of his eyes, the smudge on his left glasses lens. 

“You think?” Pete treats it as a statement, like he’s not sure if he wants to hear Patrick’s answer. 

“I know.” Patrick sips his scotch. He looks down at something near Pete’s left arm, bowing his head slightly, and says, “I’ve always known.” 

\---

Joe and Andy hadn’t been able to let it go either. Joe claps Pete into a one-armed hug and says, “I missed you, man.” Pete detects no obligation, no reticence in his words. Pete nods, looks up at him. 

“I’m really glad to see you.” 

Joe’s hands are still heavily calloused and he gestures with them in the calm studio light as he explains the tour he was just on, tells stories with a sheepish pride that Pete has never seen in him before. It’s a good look on him. 

Patrick arrives next, fresh from the Chicago winter and looking like an H&M advertisement. He enthusiastically grasps Joe’s shoulders and hugs him tightly. They talk like brothers. Pete reminds himself to curate his heart, to put this sunrise feeling behind glass and nod at it as a visitor with passing interest. 

Andy pushes the door open almost silently, and Pete can’t hold back unabashed, happy laughter when he sees the hookah cradled in his arms. Andy trades greetings and hugs, shrugs off his coat, and sets about lighting the coals. 

Andy lets Patrick choose the flavor of shisha (Patrick chooses mint, _menthol_ , and Pete’s hand slaps his pocket where his lyric book hides), and lets Joe take the first drag on the hose. 

Joe lets the cool smoke unfurl into the air and looks at Patrick, looks at Pete. 

“What do you got?” 

Pete’s face cracks into his horsey grin, because it’s real; it’s happening and they’re all turned toward him waiting, hoping, ready to open this door they had padlocked shut in 2009 and step through it together. He pulls out his lyric book and Andy taps his heel as Pete reads; Joe’s fingers twitch; Patrick hums under his breath. 

The sun is in its last moments of setting as they leave the studio, exiting the door together and parting ways with jokes and making plans in the parking lot for next Saturday. Pete is buzzing all over with that feeling that no amount of caffeine and uppers can give you, that collision of the immovable object and unstoppable force, the rough-cut, raw skin recording burning hot on Patrick’s laptop of a song called “Save Rock and Roll.”


	2. boys like you are overrated, so save your breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're not so bad yourself."

**{July, 2001}**

Pete didn’t drop out of high school; he decided he was too good for high school and now he’s out to prove it. 

He’s approached in a fucking Dunkin Donuts by a kid who looks nervous, who drops the name Racetraitor and the phrase “you’re just so… cool,” and asks Pete if he maybe might, I don’t know, consider jamming with him? 

They connect immediately; they snap together into military precision as they play some Nirvana in Joe’s childhood bedroom, complete with Star Wars sheets. Joe is just talented enough, has enough individuality and edge that no one Pete has ever played with, even in his previous bands, could hope to match. They finish out the song, Joe holding the last note until the sound fades to a scratchy hum, and Pete says,

“We’re gonna need a drummer.” 

\---

**{September}**

The den of Joe’s Winnetka house becomes their daily Batcave. Pete is usually waiting in Joe’s driveway, leaning against his shitty, beat-up Yugo, bounding forward excitedly to greet Joe as he gets off the school bus. 

“DUDE,” a typical conversation begins. “Want to work on some Sex Pistols and watch MTV?” 

Joe says yes, he always says yes, because you don’t refuse Pete Wentz, Pete Wentz of Arma Angelus and Racetraitor. He’s learned that he doesn’t want to tell Pete “no, I’m busy, I have homework” or whatever, because hanging out with Pete, just goofing off together and rocking out together, is always the best part of his day. 

Pete brings it up again today as they steadily eat their way through bags of Doritos and watch True Life. Their instruments are strewn about the floor; their fingertips are sore and tender from hours of steady, chugging rhythm, and Pete sneezes, says,

“Dude, we gotta get a drummer.”

And this time, Joe says, “I know a guy.” 

\---

Pete taps his heel against the carpet and jabs Joe with his elbow, hard. 

“Dude, is it him?” Pete hisses and jerks his head toward a guy browsing through tattoo magazines in the Borders News section. He’s tall, wiry, and has the beginning of a tattoo sleeve on his left arm. 

“Jesus Christ,” Joe retorts, rubbing his arm where Pete had shanked him with his pointy-ass elbow. “I think you’re really overestimating my level of social coolness.” 

“I don’t know your life, man,” Pete shrugs and starts walking through the aisles. Joe follows. Pete absolutely does know his life. He’s so full of shit. 

Pete’s sights zero in on a guy with a metal t-shirt on and long, greasy hair and opens his mouth, seemingly confident. Joe spots his friend. 

“Hey, Patrick!” Joe turns toward someone walking in from the entrance of the store. Pete whips around in time to see Joe hug this kid, and he is just that: a kid. 

He’s wearing an argyle sweater and cargo shorts, shitty, beat up converse on his feet, square glasses, and a dumb camo hat. He’s pale and slim with these lips, oh my god, these actual blowjob lips, that conceal orthodontia-straightened teeth. He smiles and shows them and moves to greet Pete, but,

“I bet you brush your teeth three times a day,” happens instead; Pete is instantly horrified with himself, second-guessing his words as they leave his mouth. 

“If I confirmed or denied that, I’d have to kill you,” Patrick quips back, to Pete’s fucking eternal embarrassment. 

“I’ll take it to my grave, then,” he tries hard to save face. 

Joe takes this moment to break in. 

“Pete, Patrick Stumph, a prodigious drummer. Patrick, Pete Wentz, bass god.” 

Patrick’s eyes widen; Pete cringes, he knows that look, he hears _oh my god Arma and Racetraitor_ before Patrick says the words. He knows this kid is developing a killer inferiority complex right on the spot. 

“It’s good to meet you,” Pete extends a hand. Patrick shakes it warily. He looks Joe instead of Pete, with a furious incredulity that screams _what the fuck have you gotten me into you motherfucker we are going to have serious words later I was not prepared for this._

“You too,” Patrick says quietly, now looking at Pete, but not directly meeting his gaze. Joe suggests heading back to his house and Pete agrees, bitterly wishing away his precedent reputation. 

This is the first time Pete regrets his celebrity. 

It’s not the last. 

\---

Later, on Joe’s couch, Patrick nudges Pete’s arm when Joe gets up to use the bathroom. 

“I’m sorry,” says Patrick, ducking his head before looking Pete in the eye. 

“What?” Pete is oblivious, still riding the edge of laughter from whatever Joe said before he excused himself. 

“I’m sorry I judged you by your cover.” 

Pete stops smiling. He wants, with sudden clarity, to never hear Patrick say, “I’m sorry” again. 

“No,” he spits forcefully and then dials it back. “No, Patrick, don’t. It’s okay. I get it a lot, it’s… it’s okay.” 

Patrick nods placidly for a moment, looking vaguely at something off to the side. 

“You’re pretty cool,” he enunciates softly, easily. 

“You’re not so bad yourself.” 

Joe comes back in with three cans of root beer held aloft and sits down between them. 

\---

**{Late October}**

Patrick stares at the notebook in his hands as the tires on Pete’s Yugo squeal and he tears away down Patrick’s suburban side street. 

Insecure has gained a whole new definition; see entry for Pete Wentz on page 311. Patrick opens the notebook, small and black (he shakes away the mental image of a girl’s diary), and begins to read it, standing in his own driveway in the crisp Illinois fall. 

\---

On the one hand, Pete is actually a teenage girl. On the other, Patrick’s chest hurts and his hands had involuntarily curled and clenched into fists as he read through Pete’s notebook. 

He is confused, honestly, as to why Pete gave him this book instead of Joe; he’s known Joe for months as opposed to the few hyped-up, junk food-fueled weeks he’s known Patrick. 

He’s confused because, for someone so blithe, this is oddly calculated and self-aware, not to mention personal. Intimate, even. Patrick sits back in his desk chair and tries to dispel this oddly choked sensation rising in the back of his throat. His confusion dissolves into a strange, sad rage, furious in its sudden appearance. 

_Who the fuck hurt you like this_ , Patrick types out in a text to Pete twice, erases in full and doesn’t send twice. _Who the fuck would dare_ , he thinks, clear and bright and hard. He feels so awful, worse than he did before, for ever presuming that he knew anything about Pete. 

This is the first time Patrick aches, full of Pete’s words. 

It’s not the last.


	3. light that smoke; one for giving up on me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s an acquired taste. You’ll get used to it.”

**{November}**

Pete’s parents are rarely home and Pete has the basement of the house to himself, so when the concept of a sleepover is pitched, Patrick and Joe agree readily. Pete picks them up after school and they drive blasting Blink 182 back to Pete’s large white house north of Evanston. They all sing loudly, in the general key of off-key and Pete keeps low-key staring at Patrick out of the corner of his vision at every stop sign and red light. Patrick notices, but doesn’t commit it to memory, as remembering Blink 182 lyrics is a far better use of his time and his brain. 

He would probably never have thought about it again, but at 4:00 am, Joe is passed out holding a video game controller and Pete tips his chin up at Patrick and says, “Come on.”

He senses Patrick’s reticence at stepping blindly into a pitch-dark house from a bright basement and takes Patrick’s hand. He cusses himself out roundly for it in his head, _“are you serious right now, this is your conscience speaking and you better listen up, are you in a fucking romance novel right now? I THINK NOT”_ but to Patrick’s (albeit naïve) credit, he gratefully accepts Pete’s hand. He lets Pete guide him up, up, up until Pete pops a skylight in the attic and lifts himself up and out onto the roof of the house. He helps Patrick up and notes with a certain brand of fondness and pity that most people would have assumed “bedroom” and not “secret skylight trapdoor.” It doesn’t look like Patrick assumed anything; really, he just looks happy to be along for the ride. 

It’s cold, but it hasn’t snowed yet; it’s mid-November and it’ll happen any day now, because come on, this is practically Chicago. They sit down gingerly. Pete pulls a battered pack of Marlboro Reds out of his pocket and hands one to Patrick, sticks one between his own teeth. 

Patrick turns the cigarette over and over in his hands, pulls the sweatshirt Pete lent him tight around his shoulders. Patrick doesn’t smoke, he’s never smoked, he will never smoke, but Pete gently removes the cigarette from Patrick’s fingers, sticks it between his unconsciously slightly parted lips, cups his hands around the tip and lights it up. 

“Inhale,” Pete grits out of the corner of his mouth as he lights his own. Patrick does, and for the record, he doesn’t cough. He draws the smoke into his mouth, not his lungs, and lets it out slowly, making a sour face. 

“Pleasant,” he says in what he hopes is a disaffected, breezy tone. Pete takes a deep drag and laughs on the exhale. 

“It’s an acquired taste. You’ll get used to it.” 

“I’m sure.” Patrick doesn’t know why he keeps sucking in the smoke, but it gets less awful with every drag. 

“Her name’s Jeanae,” Pete blows smoke out of his nose. 

Patrick instantly slaps his pocket for his phone. He calms his spiked heart rate by reassuring himself that he deleted it, it never sent, Pete can’t know. He doesn’t say anything. He’s decided to wait and see if Pete wants to keep talking about it. If not, he’ll wallpaper over it with anything else or let Pete talk about something childish and stupid to change the subject, but if Pete does, he’ll listen. It’s the Pete Wentz approach to conversation, the M.O. that will prove its weight to every one of the five tired boys in that broken down van. 

He forgets this, years later, when he finds his voice.

Pete takes a harsh, deep drag of his cigarette and dips his head down before he starts talking again. 

“I love her,” he says like he’s taking a test and doesn’t know an answer; a question without the question mark. “But, I mean, I can’t stand her. I can’t stand myself around her. We’ve both fucked each other over but we… I don’t know. We keep coming back.” 

In 2007, Pete will say almost the same words to a reporter from Rolling Stone, and Patrick will wonder if all he is to Pete is just a practice run. 

Here, now, he nods and pulls his knees up to his chest; Pete’s eyes are dark and shine wet in the sparse, dim light. 

Pete tells him their story. It lasts two cigarettes and Patrick can’t believe he’s getting used to their taste, their burn. He likes the way Pete talks, even with the pauses and tired slurs, even though he’s saying some really fucked up things. 

The story stops abruptly; apparently the present of Pete and Jeanae’s saga is just and harsh and turbulent as their past. Pete mutters, “Sorry.” 

Patrick’s reaction is visceral. He suddenly knows that he hates seeing Pete apologize and he doesn’t know why he feels this way. 

“No, please don’t say that. We’re friends, dude. This is what friends are for.” 

“Cigarettes, freezing weather on rooftops, and toxic relationship bullshit?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick smiles; his teeth are chattering. “Exactly.” 

"Listen," Pete stubs out his cigarette, and he pulls one more from his pack. He lights it and takes a drag, then passes it to Patrick. Patrick doesn't know why he accepts it like a verdict; maybe it's the wet mark left by Pete's lips on the filter, but maybe it's, you know, anything but that. "I know you can play drums, that's a fucking fact, okay, don't look at me like that--" 

Patrick shifts his face into neutrality; he's always been quick to contradict anyone who tells him he has talent. He passes the cigarette back to Pete as he exhales. 

"But, um, I'm sorry if this is weird or whatever... but of course it's not weird, I just told you everything about my fucked up love life." He laughs and shakes his head, and Patrick feels himself smiling. "Dude, though, okay, you... I think you have a really good voice?" 

And, like, _of course it comes out as a question_ , Patrick almost ugly laughs into the cold wind before realizing Pete is serious and embarrassed that he's paid such close attention to Patrick that he knows this. 

"Thank you?" 

"No, I mean, don't do that, I'm trying to..." Pete drags smoke and gestures emphatically, at a loss. "I don't feel like this is mine to say, as fucked up as that is, but I want you to be the vocals of whatever this is that you and me and Joe have." 

Patrick's instincts say _no_ , say _get the fuck out of this while you still can_ , but there are dark circles underneath Pete's eyes and Pete rubs his thumb over Patrick's hand as he passes him back the cigarette. 

"I don't know how good this is gonna be, Pete," Patrick says slowly. "I think you think I'm better than I am." 

Pete's mouth tightens at the corners and his brows come together sharply as he accepts the cigarette back from Patrick. 

"No," he spits. "I know you're better than you think you are." 

Pete trusts him too much, he's pushing him way too far out of his comfort zone, he's reaching for something that Patrick's not sure he can give him. Patrick runs a hand over his mouth and tries to settle this rift in his own head, the divide between wanting to do what he can to the best of his ability because Pete believes in him and _I am in way over my head and this guy is nuts_. 

"I'm sorry," Pete looks away from Patrick as he passes him the cigarette like it's too much. "I know I'm off base and I shouldn't have said anything; we'll find somebody, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do." 

Patrick takes the last drag and feels the wet mark of Pete's mouth on the filter between his lips. 

"I'll do it." He ashes out the cigarette. "I'll try." 

The way Pete looks at him then, hot with pride, achingly grateful, eyes full to bursting with emotion, comes back to him years later in a song that ripped Pete's knuckles open against a car window and almost didn't make it onto Infinity on High. 

_I thought I loved you; it was just how you looked in the light._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, Patrick doesn't smoke, but I feel like if there was anyone could have gotten him to try it once or twice as a teenager, that person would be Pete Wentz.

**Author's Note:**

> I have learned recently that Joe and Pete were in Arma and Racetraitor together and I honestly don't know if it would make sense in the context of this story if I went back and fixed it. We'll see.


End file.
